


You Don't Like My Attitude (Well, I Don't Like Your Latitude)

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Masturbation, Pining, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem starts when Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, wrapped around a body pillow like the world’s neediest octopus, hard and aching and irritated. He rolls his hips, rubbing against the overpriced pillowcase and imagines warm skin and hard muscle.</p>
<p>Eight more days until his husband comes back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Like My Attitude (Well, I Don't Like Your Latitude)

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the anon prompt : 
> 
> •You had a business trip and I missed you so much that I kind of tore up the house in your absence like a dog with separation anxiety… sorry? Stoyd AU, with Boyd gone and Stiles pining over his husband
> 
> By which I mean you should come off anon and Stoyd with me immediately.

The problem starts when Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, wrapped around a body pillow like the world’s neediest octopus, hard and aching and irritated. He rolls his hips, rubbing against the overpriced pillowcase and imagines warm skin and hard muscle.

He shuts his eyes tight, panting and begging someone who isn’t there to touch him. He slips his fingers down the waistband of his sleep pants, rubbing impatiently over his hole before realizing the lube is _too far away_ and would require opening his eyes and fucking up his fantasy.

Instead, he settles for jacking himself hard and fast, squeezing his thighs tight around solid hips while a deep, patient voice coaxes him through it.

And comes in his pants like a teenager.

Stiles doesn’t even try to clean up after. It’s not _his_ stupid pillow. He bites the corner, worries the zipper between his teeth and just lays there, whining and staring at the alarm clock with the oh-so-helpful calendar function.

Eight more days until his husband comes back home.

-

Logically speaking, this shouldn’t even be a problem, Stiles thinks. They started kind of / sort of dating the summer of senior year, right before heading off to their separate colleges. All right, it was more like no strings attached sex that got a little bit too stringy. Like _yarn exploding all over the place_ stringy. Like _I hate you you stupid cat can’t I have one nice thing_ stringy.

Stiles tried to set the ground rules for their relationship early on—no pesky feelings, no sleeping over, no telling his dad—but he really should have known from the way Boyd laughed around his collarbone that they’d all go to shit in record time. Boyd was full of surprises like that.

And like holding his hand when his dad went in for surgery and not letting go once all night. He held on when a nurse offered them coffee, and when the doctor came to give them an update, and when Stiles fell asleep on his shoulder because he was relieved but still completely emotionally exhausted.

Like pulling Stiles into his body heat and wrapping around him like a giant affectionate bear, telling shitty knock knock jokes until they both relaxed into Stiles’ old comforter. (Apparently he learned them from kids at the ice rink. And he liked kids. Who knew?)

And sitting at the kitchen table with the sheriff when Stiles came down for breakfast, completely at ease with passing the turkey bacon while John sighed, “So I guess maybe you are gay after all, huh?”

And then they had to say goodbye and go to their different schools.

-

On the front lawn of the sheriff’s house, Boyd said, “Look, we’re like three hours away from each other. If we want to, we can probably swing weekends. But I understand if you don’t.”

“Want to?”

“Yeah.”

“But you do?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d drive three hours just to have sex with me?”

Boyd stared at him for a while before he sort of smiled, shook his head, and got back in the car.

Two hours later, Mrs. Reyes sent him up to Erica’s room where he sat on a cardboard box labeled, **Too Many Shoes** and let Erica laugh at him for a good fifteen minutes straight.

She wiped her eyes against her wrist and tried to look at him without completely losing it again. “Do you seriously not get that you’re dating?”

-

 

-

They were a college cliché, and Stiles loved every minute of it. He liked to think they were turning long distance into an art form. There were Skype dates and care packages and late night phone calls that quickly got Stiles kicked into the common room. He would walk around the dorm in the middle of winter, shivering his ass off in his stupid Pikachu slippers while Boyd laughed at him and called him _baby_ down the line.

But they survived!

Like the stubborn white guy trying to find his girlfriend in a zombie movie, they survived. And now, technology is even more advanced. For fuck’s sake, there are even long distance sex toys so Boyd can get him off from halfway across the continent.

But it’s not the same as having an actual, physical _Boyd_ to hold him down and fill him up and carry him around like he weighs as much a bag of marshmallows.

Stiles is not proud of his solution, but hey. It sort of works.

Sort of.

-

When Boyd comes home, he’s struck with a wave of panic. It looks like there’s been a home invasion, or maybe a really small tornado. Given Stiles’ recent advances in the magical field, it’s probably pretty safe to go with tornado.

He makes his way to the living room and realizes that there is a _cave_ made of couch cushions. There are blankets all over the place, forming a tent that spans the entire room and shelters any occupants from sight.

It doesn’t keep him from hearing the sounds from inside.

Boyd grins, dropping slowly to a crouch and creeping slowly inside the massive blanket fort. And there’s Stiles, naked except for a thin layer of sweat, whining and clutching at a body pillow wrapped in the jacket Derek got Boyd when he made him his second.

The vibrator in his ass rattles away at its highest setting, and the salt tang of tears saturates the air. He stays still for a few more moments, watching as his husband works his hips uselessly, gasping and sobbing and hissing, “ _Fuck fuck fuck”_ in broken off fragments.

Boyd strips off his shirt, then toes off his shoes and socks before stretching out behind him. He supports himself on one elbow and reaches down to grip the base of the toy, rumbling with pleasure when he realizes just how slick and loose his baby boy is. “You miss me, baby?”

Stiles cries out sharply, fingers digging harder into the pillowcase as a warm body presses fully against his back and the vibrator is pressed in, hard and fast, buzzing directly against his prostate.

He writhes against it, pushing back against the toy and feeling his husband’s fingers against his rim. It feels too good, almost burning, and then Boyd withdraws again.

“Fuck,” He whines. “Boyd, Boyd. When…?”

“Just now. The place is a real mess. I asked you a question first.”

“What…?”

“Did you miss me?”

“ _Are you fucking k—oh!_ ” Stiles bucks hard as the toy is pushed back in forcefully. “You don’t play f- _fuck_ , Boyd!” He tosses his head back, resting against the hollow of his husband’s throat as he struggles.

“Well?”

“ _So much._ ”

“That’s what I thought.” Boyd smiles, plants a kiss against Stiles’ damp hair, and draws the toy out completely. He ignores the indignant noises coming from his smaller partner and shuts it off before tossing it away.

Stiles is halfway to raising holy hell when his husband’s thick fingers cut off any protest, plunging and twisting inside of him with slick, lewd noises. “If you hadn’t used so much of this nasty ass synthetic shit, I’d be rimming you right now. Missed the way you taste.”

“Maybe if someone told me he’d be home _early_ …”

Boyd laughs and curls in to press soft, teething kisses against his shoulder as he slips two more fingers inside.

Stiles groans. “Eager?”

“So fucking eager. Need you so bad, baby.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

            Boyd doesn’t even bother shucking his pants. He just rips open the zipper and pushes them down far enough to get his dick out. Stiles is warm and soft and waiting in his arms, but desperate or not, Boyd is careful when he goes to press inside. He’s not small, and it’s been over a week since he’s been inside his husband, so warm and wet and perfect. It seems like hours before he bottoms out, staring intently at the place where they come together. He presses his thumb against the pink rim and hums in satisfaction. “G-d, I missed you, baby.”

Boyd shifts his weight, listening to the sweet keening sound Stiles makes as he pulls him in close and wraps him up tight in his arms. Stiles is just small enough to tuck under his chin and cradle against his body, a fact that both of them thoroughly enjoy. He waits until his husband wraps his long fingers around his forearms to set up a torturously slow pace.

Soon enough, they’ve synchronized their breathing and they whisper promises back and forth, reveling in safety and comfort and the slow drag of Boyd’s cock against Stiles’ insides. Neither of them lets go, even when the pace picks up and the thrusts gather an almost punishing force. Boyd peppers the skin he can reach with kisses, brushing his thumb over a sensitive nipple and groaning as his husband tightens up around him.

Stiles chokes on it, gasping and crying at the sensation of being full after over a week of feeling so, so empty and Boyd licks the tears from his cheek. The pressure builds in his belly, bright and warm and a lot like joy. When he finally hits his peak, he digs his fingers in so deep they leave bruises, which bloom and dissipate right before his eyes.

But Boyd doesn’t let up until he drags another orgasm out of him, screaming and begging and thrashing on his dick, asking to be filled because he wants it _so fucking bad._

And Boyd’s never really been any good at denying him anything.

-

They bask in the afterglow, Stiles sprawled across Boyd’s chest and both of them staring up at a spare sheet set with tiny pink and purple flowers that Kimi uses when they babysit her. Right now it’s saturated in the kind of scents a tiny kitsune baby should definitely not be asking questions about, but a few rolls through the washer with some of Stiles’ herbal whammies should fix the problem all right.

Boyd smiles, running his fingers through his husband’s hair. “You maybe wanna explain why you trashed the place?”

Stiles buries his face against Boyd’s chest and makes an irritated noise to cover up his red cheeks. “I missed you.”

“So you tossed the place?”

“Looking for your stupid jacket.”

“Jesus, you’re like a dog.”

Stiles pinches his side, and he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps laughing.

“Can’t leave you alone for a second.”

“No. You really can’t, asshole.”

“So next time I’ll take you with me, huh?”

Stiles goes still for a second before turning his face up to look Boyd in the eye. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Not joking. I talked to Derek.”

“ _And_?”

“He says it’s worth risking you setting fire to shit if it makes me less of an asshole.”

Stiles beams. “See, now that’s what I like to hear.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
